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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038952">The neighbour in 3B</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak'>Darke_Eco_Freak</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Gen, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Slice of Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:20:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038952</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Your new neighbour's got odd taste in music, and odd time to play it. One room over, while it rains, always the same song and always the same guy, the one in 3B.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The neighbour in 3B</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Best read while listening to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfb7QLmzpIQ">this edit of It's Been a Long, Long Time</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes the neighbour plays that song, the old one you don't know the name of but you kinda know it. The tune at least, because the neighbour plays it enough. </p><p>The first time you were annoyed, it was 11 o'clock on a rainy Tuesday night and some people had work in the morning. But you banged on the wall and they turned it down, good enough right? Except later, when you're talking to the maintanence guy, he tells you yeah, there's an old WWII vet living in the appartment, just moved in. </p><p>And you feel like a jackass. Old guy's probably just trying to remember the good old days, maybe his friends? So the next time, when a storm rolls in and you just barely make it home before the rain, you don't say nothing when the song starts playing. You listen along and wonder what this song meant to your neighbour. </p><p>The next time, it's Thanksgiving and you're home because who can make it out of the city anyway? You hear the song and voices from the neighbour's place. Maybe he's got some people over. And when someone knocks on your door, and there's a young guy, ridiculously buff and smiling real big, you figure it's the old guy's grandson or something. </p><p>He offers you some left over pie and you thank him, say he doesn't have to really, but he says it's the neighbourly thing to do and sorry for the loud music. You tell him it's no problem. You don't mind, and tell his grandpa happy Thanksgiving too. </p><p>Maybe you should pay more attention to the odd look he gives you but you don't. The guy says his name is Steve and you think it's familiar, like the song, but not really so you let it go. </p><p>Then things get hectic and you take later shifts at work. You're home well after midnight some days and don't catch the song, if it even plays, until well into the holidays, Christmas eve in fact. You're out on the fireescape, sucking down some hot cocoa and squinting at the snowflakes tottering down. </p><p>Might not be a white Christmas but it's gonna be cold at least. And you couldn't get a flight back home, figures, at least you did all your shopping already so you've got a nice Christmas dinner lined up. </p><p>And that's when you hear it, 10 o'clock on Christmas eve, that song again. And someone singing along to it. Maybe singing or maybe just humming real loud but you can hear because their window is open. Whoever's humming has a nice enough vioce, deepish, and you sway along to the song you don't know. </p><p>Christmas comes, Christmas goes, Steve drops off a tin of expensive cookies and you've got a present for his grandpa, who you've never actually seen but figure is just around. You got him something either way, some old fashioned candies from a store on fifth, just like they used to make back in the day. </p><p>Steve stares you when he takes the tin, like he's gonna cry or something, chokes on the thank you, and you tell him it's nothing really. You think about that, him almost crying, as you dip one of your cookies in your cocoa. Wonder if you should go over and see how the old guy's doing. </p><p>New Year's, and you don't really expect the music, figure the old guy's asleep or something by the time the countdown starts. Except no, except the song starts up, louder than you've ever heard it. And you get a feeling, just a feeling, that makes you go over. Knock on the door, bang on it really, cause you don't think your neighbour can hear you over the music. </p><p>The door swings open after a minute, a whole long minute where you feel like a fool banging on an old guy's door, but there's Steve. Staring at you, confused, with eyes a little too wild and hair a little too mussed. And there's a guy standing behind him, black guy you've never seen before, but he looks like Steve, the wild eyes you mean. </p><p>He doesn't say anything, but the music's blaring louder now that the door's open, and you ask if he's okay. If his grandpa's alright, and if they need anything. You've got some earplugs if they need them. </p><p>Steve doesn't say anything, but his friend does. The guy, name's Sam, says that'd be great thanks so much. So you get them, the ear plugs, all the little packets from the novelty promotion work's been doing, and you make sure the two of them've got those in right before you leave. </p><p>You don't even realise the ball's dropped and the year's in until you get back to your own apartment and the music turns down to regular levels. </p><p>Weeks dash by, no music, no noise from your neighbour either. You ask the maintenance guy, and apparently your neighbour is out of town, visiting a friend or something. You hope he's alright, wonder if his grandson swung by and took him for a while. Probably. </p><p>March dances in with a thunderstorm that shakes the windows and you get home, soaked to the bone, and meet Steve in the elevator. You ask if he's here to see his grandpa, he laughs, tired, and he's got bags under his eyes, one over his shoulder. </p><p>He says no, he's not visiting his grandpop, but it's good to see you again, hope everything's been okay. You tell him it's been fine, same old same old, and both of you get off on the same floor. You shivering already, Steve dropping his bag at his feet while he rifles through his keys. You think it's a little weird, that he didn't come to visit his grandpa, maybe he's moving into the apartment while the old man's gone visiting. </p><p>The music starts up as you step into the hot shower, and you almost know the words, hum along as the thunder rolls. </p><p>April, and May, and June, and summer's there, knocking on your door, and you're dragging yourself out of bed to answer. There's Steve again, dressed in dark clothes that look almost tactical, sporting a beard you've never seen on him before. There's some white guy standing behind him, just as big as Steve with lanky hair, and oh hey Sam's there too. He's asking if you've got anymore earplugs, apologises for waking you, and wants to know if anyone new moved into the place since you saw them last.</p><p>You tell him no, wiping the sleep from your eyes, and root around in your work bag for a pair. Truthfully you swiped some, just a feeling, and it wasn't like anyone missed them. So you didn't feel too bad about it. </p><p>Sam says thanks, Steve says seriously thanks, and the other guy doesn't say anything. And you forget about the strangeness by the time your head hits the pillow again.</p><p>July, another storm, and the song again. You're swaying along to it in your kitchen when you hear a bump and laughing, voices. Someone's saying "two left feet...Stevie" and someone else, probably Steve "better...you" Something about it, so happy and at ease, something about the way those people are talkig with each other makes you laugh too, makes your heart ache a little lonely, a little happy.</p><p>You dance alone, and they dance together, and the rain falls on everyone while the song plays on.</p><p>It's August, late-bright August when you put it all together. Coming home from a late shift that ends early in the morning, when the city's still half asleep and the dawn's just tickling the horizon. You're dead on your feet and ready to sleep, and the building's quiet when you get in, except there's somebody in the elevator. Two somebodies. </p><p>You step in and lean against the wall, hey Steve as the doors close. And he says hi, that he was out for a early morning run, and introduces his friend Bucky. The man you didn't know from that long day ago in March. Bucky smiles, holds out a prosthetic hand for you to shake, and you do, a little amazed at the articulation of it, pretty hi-tech. But you don't flinch away or say anything about it, and you think Bucky's relieved about that, just a feeling.</p><p>You ask Steve about his grandpa, if he's still with friends or moved out or what's up there, and Bucky laughs. Full and loud and uncontrollably. He's gotta hold onto the elevator railing to keep himself up.</p><p>And Steve is all big eyes and flushing face, mouth opening-closing like a fish, like he doesn't know what to say. </p><p>So you say something instead, how Bill the maintanence man told you a World War vet lived next door and you thought it was his grandpa. How you always hear the music playing, some old timey thing and you assumed, but the more you say, the more you're confused too. More you frown and furrow as it. Starts to. Come. Together. </p><p>The old music and the young man and the names. Steve and Bucky. Steven Rogers. Bucky Barnes. And Sam too, Sam Wilson.</p><p>You stare, at his handsome face and true-blue eyes, blond hair and well built muscles. You stare at the set of his shoulders and remember the panic in his face that New Year night. And put it together.</p><p>What's the name of that song you're always playing, you ask finally, after such a long time.</p><p>It's been a long, long time, he tells you, and sticks out a hand to introduce himself. Though you've finally figured it out. After such a long time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Come say hi on <a href="https://twitter.com/Darke_Eco_Freak">twitter</a> I guess? Mostly written while listening to the mentioned song.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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